


when darkness is too loud, light dares not to speak

by Potoo



Series: A Kink Meme Journey [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, M/M, Not Happy, but I think that is justified, this made me uncomfortable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:06:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potoo/pseuds/Potoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the following Kink Meme <a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=3314479#t3314479">prompt</a>:<br/>"Grantaire fucks a prostitute hard against a wall in an alleyway. Enjolras is passing by and hears someone moaning his name, so stops and looks in. He's never seen sex before, and can't move his eyes away."</p><p>
  <i>His words were streaked with tears, hard, breathless moans and desperation. Enjolras wanted to speak up, needed to speak up, wished to put an end to this folly, to question Grantaire; but the man was drunk, if not on drink then on lust, and a conversation would be futile.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	when darkness is too loud, light dares not to speak

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [黑暗喧嚣之甚，光明缄口不言](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417198) by [Jacinthe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacinthe/pseuds/Jacinthe)



The background noise in Paris was composed of a myriad of untold stories, and those stories turned all the more tenebrous when the sun set. Where under the foggy sun, a child's sobs could be heard from an alley, that same child would scream by night; by day, men's wheezing was loud and by night, their blood hitting the cobblestones was louder in its silence; and the woman who chatted beneath the sun moaned beneath the moon. Not that a moon could not be seen, not here, not now, Enjolras thought as he looked up. 

It was dark. A few lamps illuminated the way, and from windows, the flickering light of candles could be seen, but Parisian darkness was more than an absence of light, and it seeped through the streets and crawled towards him wherever the faint glow of the remaining light did not reach. The city was dark and the city was loud, and it was alive with the sounds of suffering.  
Enjolras did not close his eyes and ears to anguish, he never did, but as much as he pitied them, the whores lining certain streets could not be helped, not by him alone. Time and progress would help them; his hands alone would not. He had acquired the habit to ignore the characteristic sound of coupling along with the other nightly sounds, and thus he did not stop when the rustling of clothes indicated an intimate encounter in the alley leading away from the street he was walking on. He needed to get home quick, too, disliked listening to the rattle of society's chains around him, so amplified during the night, and wanted to sleep long to be well-rested tomorrow. 

No, he did not stop for the rustling of clothes, but he _did_ stop when his own name, drawn-out and breathy, joined the cacophony of the forlorn city. Enjolras froze on the spot. Again, his name, accompanied by flesh slapping against flesh. He scowled in confusion and ventured closer to the source, the darkness of the narrow alleyway engulfing him the moment he stepped off the wide street. The ground was damp, a long and flat puddle of mud was covering the stones, but the noise his steps made was swallowed by breathy groaning. The light was dimmer than he had expected, only the glow of one lonely candle from the second floor of one of the houses lining the alley illuminating the scene; but Enjolras did not need to see much to understand what was taking place – his ears described the scene well enough, a scene he would normally avoid observing. But curiosity urged him forwards, until he stopped again, hidden by shadows yet able to make out what was happening a few feet away from him.

A woman's figure was standing next to the brick wall of a house, her cheek pressed against the cool stones. Her eyes were closed, long fair hair falling over her shoulders, and despite the distance, Enjolras caught sight of bright make-up covering her face. A lady of the night, most probably. The face was distorted in what had to be pain; her long dress was rucked up where broad hands gripped her hips. The darkness concealed the bruises forming there. Enjolras' gaze wandered to the owner of those hands, broad as well, rough, making noises whose certain origin could not be determined by Enjolras – he sounded as if he was in pain, but pleased; impatient but savoring the moment. He sounded like a wild beast, huffing and groaning, devouring its slain prey. He sounded as distorted as the woman's face looked like. And he sounded familiar, and when he called Enjolras' name, Enjolras was hit by the realization that it was this _man_ who seemed to find pleasure in pretending the whore was him, or that he was the whore; and he was hit with the realization that this man was Grantaire.  
When he wondered why he had not realized that earlier, he told himself that he had heard his name spoken by Grantaire often enough in his life, but never quite like this. 

Grantaire was thrusting into between the woman's buttocks, his hands squeezing her narrow hips while his face stayed half-hidden in the crook of her neck. Her legs were spread wide open, feet firm on the ground while she offered him her bottom. Enjolras' guts churned at the knowledge. 

“Fuck,” his friend called, “fuck, fuck, yes, you're so-”  
Enjolras remained where he was. This was no matter of his. If Grantaire wanted to fuck a woman in a dark alleyway well after midnight, it was of no consequence to Enjolras. She did not look to be _too_ displeased by his actions, and he was certain she would be paid well. It was of no consequence to him, and he should leave, instead of continuing to gawk at the couple. 

He did not leave, as much as he knew he should. 

Grantaire was to be made responsible for that. It had become a matter of his the moment the man had groaned his name. So Enjolras stayed, and watched the scene unfolding, seeing better each second, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. 

The woman moaned something, her voice high-pitched but far from crying, and Grantaire growled. “Be quiet, hussy,” he half-roared, half-sobbed, and Enjolras realized that it wasn't the woman but Grantaire who was close to crying, “I don't pay you to talk-” Another hard thrust. Her whole body shuddered. She did not say anything after that, the few moans that escaped her mouth as quietly as possible.  
Grantaire, contrasting her sharply, was all the louder, or maybe Enjolras only imagined that. “Like that, like that, you... you enjoy this, you... you want it, you want it just like that, I-” His speech was interrupted by a sob, and another moan, “ah! forever a virgin? Not anymore, my love, not anymore, I've got you, shh...” 

Enjolras shuddered. His lips were pressed together tightly. 

“...you let me do this to you, you're so beautiful, you're... you'll never be more beautiful, you'll never be beautiful again...” And he kissed the whore's neck, reverently, as if he was not fucking her but loving her. Enjolras' left hand grabbed his right arm, taking hold of something, anything. 

Grantaire commenced to cry in earnest as he entered the woman all the harder. She cried out, another high-pitched yell, but he did not seem to notice, or care. “Enjolras, you're mine-” 

Enjolras bit his lip. 

“-how could you let me do this, defile you, you're a monster, you're ugly, you're horrible, how _could_ you, I hate you, Enjolras, Enjolras...” His words were streaked with tears, hard, breathless moans and desperation. He wanted to speak up, needed to speak up, wished to put an end to this folly, to question Grantaire; but the man was drunk, if not on drink then on lust, and a conversation would be futile. 

Grantaire fucked a whore in an alleyway, and Grantaire pretended it was him he was fucking. Enjolras had to close his eyes, feeling violated and sick and something he did not know how to name and would not dare to, if he knew how. Grantaire fucked a whore in an alleyway and told her – him how beautiful he was, how ugly he was, that he hated him. 

Enjolras did not doubt that if it were him in the woman's place, he would hate himself as well, if not now, then on the morning. Neither did he doubt that hatred and repulsion were not the only things he was feeling at the moment. But it was confusing, too confusing, and he did not want to imagine Grantaire's hands on his hips, much too rough, did not want to imagine him crying into his neck.

Grantaire made a last beastly, ugly sound, mangling Enjolras' name in a grotesque cry, and spent inside of the whore. He stayed as he was for a few long moments, slumped over the feminine figure, his prick buried inside of her, his hands limp on her hips and breathing instead of sobbing into her neck. Enjolras knew he had to leave, but this was the only sight he would not regret observing, he sensed. Grantaire looked as if he was at peace, as if he was unaware of the repugnant act he had just partaken in; as if his life was, for once, fulfilled. Enjolras shuddered again, but much harder than before. This, he had never imagined he would see in Grantaire, exhausted bliss running from his toes to his scalp, evident in the way his muscles relaxed and his mouth formed a smile. 

For one short second, Enjolras yearned to step out of the shadow and hold him, simply hold him, brush a hand over his back and place one chaste kiss upon that sweaty brow, to whisper and to feel his arms around himself, to help him find that peace again. 

The second was over. 

Instead, he remembered the hoarse way his name had sounded on Grantaire's tongue, remembered having been told he would become a _monster_ if he were to love him, remembered the tears. Tears were not a part of love. Enjolras retreated the moment Grantaire straightened up, if only marginally, and pressed a few coins into the woman's hand. 

The wide street welcomed him. Enjolras strode home, his gait fast and his mind lost in his immediate memories. He remembered the tears. He went to bed and woke and remembered the tears, and when Grantaire appeared at the Musain the following day, he looked just the way he always did. Enjolras began to believe it had been a sickening dream, nothing else. 

“Do you want some coin, too?” Grantaire asked as he left, later that evening, his tone bitter. “You played a big part in the play, it would only be just if you were paid as well, I could not have performed nearly as well without your support. All the actors need their share. Here. The same amount. I wish not to be called unjust!” He fumbled for coins, but Enjolras looked away, turned his back on the other man, and left. 

“Enjolras.” Grantaire said, pleading. It sounded nothing like the debauched moan the night before. 

Enjolras remembered the tears. He did not answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed. I'm ESL, sorry for silly mistakes. 
> 
> If you've got qualms with the characterization, please, go ahead and tell me. I hope it's clear that this is written from Enjolras' POV, and doesn't necessarily reflect my personal opinions; in fact, the narrative and choice of words is heavily influenced by Enjolras as the POV. I wanted to do something different with the prompt; but Enjolras ran away from my intentions.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
